


Gillian The Fix

by ThePandoricaWillOpen



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Drug Withdrawal, Episode: s01e06 The Fix, Episode: s02e05 Gillian, F/M, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possible Character Death, Possible Trigger for drug abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePandoricaWillOpen/pseuds/ThePandoricaWillOpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch's new girl has a secret – a secret that puts him in danger. When he goes missing, it is up to Starsky to figure out whom, what and why. Cross-between 'Gillian' and 'The Fix'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chance Meeting

(Prologue)

She had grown up in a small town in the Midwest that barely had a population of five hundred. She had grown up with parents as strict and straightedge as anyone in her neighbourhood. By age seventeen, she had had enough. Once her college applications were sent in and she received a response, she picked the farthest school possible from her parents and left. They still sent her money now and then, thinking that, at age thirty, she was still at school. Little did they know what their daughter really did with her time …

It started as a way to earn money for college. She had been able to get an apartment near the school, affordable on the budget she had. But once her tuition and other fees were tallied up, she realised her money would not last very long. Bay City was expensive being so close to another large city like Los Angeles. One of her girlfriends had a cousin who knew some guy who could get her a job that earned good money. She wasn't picky, not then, about what type of job she wanted. She was barely out of high school; most employers took it as a risk to hire a teen. So she didn't say anything when they asked her for intimate details during the interview.

"Can you dance?" had been the interviewers, a pudgy woman of about fifty, first question. She was about to respond when the woman added, "erotically." She shook her head. The woman wrote something down on the pad of paper she had in front of her. "Let's start with something simple, shall we?" the woman asked. "Say your name."

"Gillian Elisabeth Monroe," she said.

"No!" the woman yelled in frustration. "Say it erotically."

And so began her career as a hooker and all the 'perks' that come along with being the property of some big shot who lived in a mansion on the fancy side of Bay City with his elderly mother.

"It's a job," she told herself as she walked out of the interview room, a paper with an address on it in her firm grip. "I can quit once I've save up enough money for school. I can quit… "

But quitting from the mother and son duo that ran the operation wasn't easy as she found out two years later. She was tired of living the life of a striper/masseuse/hooker and had already saved up more than enough money for at least six years. She wanted quits. But they hadn't taken her letter of resignation, not with everything she 'knew' about them.

"You can put us in the hole," the son said, threateningly. "You can't quit. No one quits."

She had packed up and moved out of her apartment the next day. Her bank accounts were emptied and she ran for the hills trying to get away from them. One of her favourite hangouts now that she was free was the library. She always watched over her shoulder, was always careful to use her new name.

It was there she met Kenneth Hutchinson and were things began to fall apart.

\--

He met her at a library. Funny thing about libraries: they are always chuck-full of women. Not just any women, however, intelligent women. Hutch liked intellectuals. He'd gone to college, even (half of) medical school and had gotten used to intelligent women who could keep a conversation going for hours. But in Bay City, these kinds of women seemed to live outside of his reach. In the ten years he had lived in the city, he'd only met one woman with whom he had really clicked. And he found her in a library whilst returning a book on criminal psychology.

The woman – a tall, curvaceous yet slim lady - reminded him of a young Marilyn Monroe. She was standing right by the shelf he had picked up his book, right next to the book that was next on his list. She lowered her glasses down her nose as he passed by. He took that as a good sign as he passed by, muttering an excuse me as he did.

"No problem," she replied turning to him with a wide smile.

Hutch smiled back, raising his eyebrow as he turned back to the shelf. She had in her hands a copy of the book he'd returned. This is no coincidence, Hutch thought. This is destiny. He turned back to her once he found his book of the week, the cover reading outwards.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but see that you have in your hands …"

And the rest was history.

\--

"When do I get to meet this new gal of yours, Hutch?"

"Soon," Hutch replied running his hand through his blonde hair. He was sweaty from the chase as they ran after the chum that Starsky now pushed into the hands of a UNI. One would think Starsky would be the one sweating bullets, what with all the burritos and toxic foods he ate on a regular basis. And yet he was sweat-less and Hutch was sticky and smelly from the sweat his body insisted on releasing. He was the one that jogged a mile every morning, not Starsky.

"When is 'soon'?"

"When I feel like it, partner."

"You talk about her all the time, man! I feel left out not having even seen this girl."

"She's not a girl, Starsk," Hutch corrected. "She happens to be a very intelligent woman."

"Whatever you say," Starsky mumbled under his breath. "When am I gonna get to meet this 'intelligent' broad of yours, then?"

"Soon," Hutch said pushing through the double doors of the temporary homicide squad room and going straight for the telephone on his desk. Starsky followed, looking over his shoulder as he dialled. Hutch turned to his partner, covering the mouthpiece. "Would you mind?"

"Oh, sure!" Starsky exclaimed walking away. He plopped himself in his seat, not as comfortable as his old one, and waited until Hutch turned back to the phone and then said over his shoulder, "You're supposed to dial 9 for an outside line."

\--

Gillian was lying on the couch, her feet nervously moving from left to right with every second that passed. Hutch was late and Hutch was never late. He always called, always, at this time to check in with her. It was more for her safety and his peace of mind but she had gotten used to the calls. He'd helped her get away from her past and he wasn't about to let her go back into it.

"It's like an addiction," he told her, "little by little, you detox and forget you even had a problem."

She hoped he was right with all her might. Every phone call from him, every touch and look gave her strength to quit and to continue to fight to be her own person, not controlled by a mother and son who owed people like objects. She wasn't an object, Hutch reminded her, she was a human being with rights.

The phone rang and immediately she pulled herself up, answering with an urgency that scared the man on the other side of the phone. Disappointed, she mumbled into the phone, "wrong number," and hung up. Gillian laid back down on the couch and waited.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starsky finds out...

Hutch was in love … and it didn’t sit well with Starsky. The fact that he hadn’t laid eyes on the girl made him suspicious. They shared everything, nothing was off limits between the two and this, not introducing his lady to his best friend, was something that didn’t escape Starsky’s mind. Sure, Hutch was secretive and more reserve of the two but when it came to his love interests, especially someone he really clicked with (someone other than Starsky, of course), Starsky was the first to meet the lovely lady. It was their thing, flaunting their dates to one another. But Gillian was different. She _made_ Hutch act different and Starsky didn’t like it.

            He was sitting behind his desk, one eye on a paper splayed out between his hands and the other on his partner who sat on a desk as far away as he could from Starsky. Hutch was whispering into the phone, his goofy smile firmly planted on his face. He would turn to look at Starsky as he talked every few moments, making sure his conversation wasn’t being heard. It was all one sided anyway, nothing from Gillian and so all Starsky was able to hear were the sweet nothings that Hutch was telling her. That and the soothing tone he used when he wanted to calm someone down and the way he clutched to the phone, his knuckles white. Starsky knew him too well. Hutch was stressed and was playing it off, like he always did.

            When his partner stood up, Starsky put down his unread newspaper and sighed. Captain Dobey walked into the squad room, his eyes on the two detectives. He walked up to Starsky and motioned to his partner who was putting on his jacket in a hurry and trying to find his keys on his cluttered desk.

            “What’s wrong with him?” Dobey inquired.

            “It’s called love, Cap,” Starsky replied. “My partner dearest has found himself a good old fashion girl who will tend to his good old fashion boring needs.”

            “What’s boring to some, is fun to others,” Hutch interjected, taking his keys off Starsky’s desk - how they’d gotten there was a wonder to him – and made his way to the door. He turned before exiting. “Um, I have to go, cap-“

            “ – I’m sure I can handle it,” Starsky interrupted. “Hutch can go, right, captain?” Captain Dobey nodded. “See! Now go on and see your special lady friend.” Starsky took a few moments, watching Hutch go, before turning to Dobey. “I’m going to look her up.”

            “What? What for?”

            “There is something going on here, Cap!” Starsky exclaimed. “I haven’t met her! I always meet Hutch’s girl, always.”

            “Well, maybe he wants her all to himself,” Dobey said leaving a manila envelope and his desk and walking away.

* * *

Starsky walked into The Pits later than day, immediately catching Huggy’s eye. The tall man followed him to one of the tables on the far end corner of the club. The place wasn’t crowded but it was full enough that Starsky didn’t want anyone listening in on this conversation, especially one that revolved around his partner. He’d phone Huggy earlier, asking for a meet but hadn’t told him for what.

            “Hey, Hug, I need a favour.” Huggy made a go ahead gesture with his hands and waited. Starsky looked around, making sure no one heard. “It’s about Hutch.”

            “Hutch?” Huggy asked taken aback. “What’s wrong with Blondie? Did something happen?”

            “You can’t tell him,” Starsky told him. “I need you to look into his girl. Ask around w-with whomever you can and a-ask…” he paused. Was he really about to do this? Yes, he told himself, for Hutch’s sake. “Ask around for information on Gillian Ingram.” 

* * *

            A few days later, Starsky went down to a local massage parlour. He kept his badge in his pocket and made his way inside the alcohol-on-top-of-vanilla smelling place. He had received a message from Huggy about Gillian and had, after leaving Hutch will all the paperwork for the week. He walked into parlour and looked around. There was girl by a desk who stood when he came in, a smile on her pretty face.

            “Hello,” she purred out, running her hand through her red hair. “How can I help you, sir?”

            “I’m… I’m looking for s-someone,” he told the girl looking around.

            “Oh, really?” the girl sat back down with the pace of a turtle, making sure her shirt stretched over her chest as she leaned on the desk and asked, “who are you looking for?”

            “Her name is Gillian,” Starsky said, leaning down on the desk opposite of the girl. “You’re not Gillian by any chance?”

            The girl shook her head. “But I could be, if you wanted me to be.”

            “No… see it has to be Gillian, i-its important I find her,” Starsky told her with a smile. The girl’s smile faltered but she pointed to the back, behind a curtain, with her manicured red nails.

            “Gillian is through those curtain, baby, but she’s busy. I don’t think you’ll want to disturb her at this time.”

            Starsky leaned down and placed a kiss on the girl’s cheek. He went to the curtain, pulling it back slightly. He expected to see Gillian giving some old guy a massage, perhaps as background for her novel (Hutch had said she was a writer) anything but the worst. He pulled back the curtain, took a peek and sighed. Nope, Gillian was one bad cookie and Hutch had to know. Starsky left determined to tell Hutch what he’d found.

* * *

 Starsky goes home, not having the energy to do anything especially not to speak to Hutch. And yet the moment he is relaxed, picking up a newspaper and reading it over, he picked up his phone and dialled Hutch’s number. By the time he realized what he was doing, it was too late to hang up.

            “Yeah, make it fast,” Hutch answered roughly.

            Not having anything to say, Starsky just said, “hey.”

            “Yeah, what do you want?”

            “Nothing,” Starsky said in all honesty, putting the newspaper down and rubbing the back of his neck. He could tell Hutch right now and get it over with. But first, “How are you doing?”

            “I’m going out, that’s what’s doing.”

            “Mm. Oh yeah,” Starsky replied. Yup not the time to tell him the truth about his girl. “With Gillian?”

            “No,” Hutch said, “the Boston Strangler.” He snorted. “Of course with Gillian, who else?”

            A pause. Starsky had to stop himself from saying anything stupid like ‘someone who isn’t lying to you’. It wasn’t the time and judging by the sarcastic voice Hutch was using, he was in a hurry anyway and wouldn’t listen.

            “Well, have a good time.”

            “Yeah, thanks, mom. Oh, I’ll be in early,” Hutch said a second before he hung up.

            Starsky held the phone by his ear, thinking. Hutch was in love, or at least he sure seemed that way. At the very least he was smitten. A smitten Hutch was a dangerous Hutch, Starsky had learnt that a while back. It wasn’t the time to tell him.

            “When is the right time?” Starsky asked himself out loud, hanging up the phone. “When is it ever the right time to hear that your girl is also a hands on masseuse?”

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starsky confronts Gillian and gives her a choice.

They were in a fancy restaurant that had, for some reason, taken Hutch's reservation a few days ago. It was odd but he didn't question it. Gillian wore a short black dress that clung to her in all the right places and made the rest of the ladies in the room like they were wearing their grandmother's clothes. Hutch pulled her chair out for her to sit and then sat in front of her, a giant smile on his face. Gillian smiled back at him, looking around for a moment.

"Look at your smile," she said. "It's indecent…"

"What are you gonna do? Arrest me?" Hutch asked, his smile growing. He put his hand on the table and reached towards Gillian clasping her hand with his. "I wouldn't resist, you know."

"Let's eat and then we can deal with that indecent smile of yours," Gillian said as the waiter arrived. Her smile falters when she sees a man leaning against the bar holding up a phone to his ear. The man turns away, muttering something before hanging up.

"… you like lamb, don't you?" Hucth was asking her. Gillian blinked, looking back at the handsome man in front of her and smiling.

"Yeah, I like lamb," she replied with a false smile. The waiter leaves and Gillian immediately reaches out to touch Hutch. "I-I love you. I really love you."

"What's wrong?" Hutch asked in alarm. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing," she told him with a shake of her head. "I just – I love you, no matter what happens, I love you."

"Nothing's gonna happen," he reassured her with a kiss on her hand. "I promise."

* * *

"It's like nothing I've ever known before," Hutch said in dream-like state. Starsky listened on, trying to keep his mouth shut before he interrupted Hutch's dream date retelling to tell him what his girl really did. "We don't even have to do anything. I could just spend hours looking at her. That's what's so great about it."

"Terrific."

"Oh!" Hutch made a sound closely resembling a squeal, making Starsky jump in his seat and looking at his partner. "And she smells so good!"

_"All units in the vicinity. A 211 in progress at Stardust Adult Books, 1620 Marshall Street,"_ a dispatcher screeched through the police radio. Hutch reached for it, answering the call and then looked at Starsky who shook his head.

"Another porno," Starsky muttered.

"And it's still us," Hutch replied reaching for the siren and placing on top of the Torino whilst Starsky made a U-turn in the middle of the street. "Some day you are gonna get us killed, Starsk."

"Hasn't happened yet, partner," Starsky muttered as the car pulled up to the curve. They got out, Starsky heading over to a flailing man standing outside the joint while Hutch looked in the direction of the flailing arms. "What happened, Harry?"

"Two guys just robed my cashier, that's what happened!" The man yelled, his arms flailing all over the place.

"Which way?" Starsky asked, ducking as Harry pointed to his left.

"That way!"

"You had a bad week, Harry," Hutch tells Harry as he and Starsky take off down the alley. They reach the end and all they see are rubbish bins, boxes thrown about and a badly parked car. "Nothi-"

Shots are fired. Starsky goes to the right, hiding behind a dirty blue bin. Hutch remains in the middle of the alley, eyes as big as a deer caught in headlights. He hesitates but manages to go to the left before another shot is fired, pressing himself between the wall and a black bin.

"You okay?" Starsky called out, worried about his partner. Something was obviously wrong; Hutch never hesitated. He might now have been trained in the army like Starsky but Hutch was a cop through and through. Hesitation was not in his DNA. "Hutch?"

"Y-yeah…" Hutch replied just barely above the sound of shots being fired.

"Cover me, Hutch," Starsky told him, walking backwards a bit and waiting for the shots to cease. "Hutch?" He nods and darts out, running towards the men at the end of the alley. Shots are fired but none are returned. Starsky took cover and yelled back, "Hutch?!" No response. "Hey, Hutch?" Starsky jumped out of his hiding spot and fired again.

Finally Hutch reacts, shooting back towards the end of the alley and covering for Starsky moments too late. He joins Starsky, moving towards the end of the alley. The guys they were chasing were gone, not a trace of them was left. Starsky looked at Hutch who looked pale, sweat pouring down his face as he frantically looked around the alley.

"Never did see them. Did you?" Starsky said as he looked around. "I thought you got hit back there. What happened?" Hutch fell to the ground, his knees making an uncomfortable crashing sound as they hit the floor. Starsky crouched down next to Hutch and wrapped his arms around him. "You're shaking. Talk to me, Hutch."

"I-I'm scared, Starsk," Hutch whispered looking up at Starsky with wide eyes. "I'm scared."

"Yeah. Me too. Every time I pull this thing."

"N-no that's not what I'm talking about," Hutch said with a shake of his head. "I froze. For the first time I got to thinking I could have gotten you killed."

Starsky shook his head. "No way. You see the way they took off? Amateurs."

"Yeah, but if they hadn't! I didn't move up the way you did. I didn't cover you. I didn't work the way _we_ work." Hutch shook his head furiously, his hands touching Starsky's, which still held him. "I failed you, Starsk."

"Forget it!" Starsky insisted. "Your mind was elsewhere."

* * *

Back in the squad room, Starsky set Hutch down in a seat and got him a cup of coffee. Hutch didn't like to be fussed about; he would rather be the one fussing over someone. Finally, Hutch got up and went to the bathroom, leaving Starsky to sit behind his desk and wonder what had really happened today. He froze, that much Hutch had said, but what if he  _had_ gotten Starsky killed by this inaction? It was stupid to think of Hutch as anything but a superb cop who went by the book unless strictly necessary. This was  _not_ Hutch. Gillian was at fault that was clear.

"Oi, Starsky! You gonna pick that up or what?" a detective from a few desks down yelled, bringing Starsky out of his thoughts. "Fucking irritation that ringing is!"

"You've been watching too much British television, Donny!" Starsky replied. "You're starting to sound like 'em!" He picked up the phone. "Starsky."

"Hey, Starsky. This is the Bear."

"Yeah, what you got?"

"I almost forgot what I got. You should answer your phone more regularly," Huggy said. "Ready for the whole nine yards about that chick you put me onto? Gillian?"

"Yeah?"

"She works at Venus Massage, like I told you. She's a high class hooker and she works for a cat named Grossman and his mother." Huggy paused. "She is in deep with these people, Starsk. They want all the shops down by the porno joints, they want everything and everyone and they aint afraid to take someone out."

"Thanks, Hug. And remember mum's the word to Hutch." Starsky hung up the phone and sighed. Hutch came into the squad room a moment later looking as downtrodden as he had in the alley. He kept his eyes down and that was fine with Starsky. He was about to lie and there were only two people who knew when he was lying, his mother and his partner. At the exact time Hutch sat down, Starsky stood. "Uh, I have to go. Merle wants to show me some new paint for the Torino. You fix that shooting report and I'll be back in no time, huh?"

Hutch nodded without even looking up from his desk. Starsky came around to his partner's side, touching him gently on the arm. Hutch returned the gesture and sighed heavily. "Go," he said with a small wave in the doors general direction. "I can do it. Go pick out colours and talk about cars with Merle like gossiping wives. I'll be fine."

"I know you will be, partner."

* * *

Gillian was writing Hutch a letter when her doorbell rang. Shakily and a bit hesitant, she got up from her seat, pulling the paper out of her typewriter and putting it under some folders, and went to the door.

"Who is it?" she asked hesitantly, her hand on the frame of the door.

"Dave Starsky. Ken's friend."

Gillian opened the door with a relieved smile and welcomed Dave in. "Hello. Is everything alright?"

"Hi, I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. I should have called but I didn't have you're number and Hutch is really secretive…"

"No bother at all, come in." He walked into the apartment, his eyes zooming around the place. Gillian could see the way his detective mind worked, trying to see exit strategies, illegal things and such. Ken had told her that Dave had been in the military before becoming a cop but she didn't really see it until now. The way he walked and stood, perfectly in sync, was beautiful. No wonder Ken talked about his partner with such reverence. Gillian sat back in her previous seat as Dave paced around the room. "What can I do for you, Dave?"

"Does Hutch know?" Dave got an envelope from inside his coat and handed it to Gillian. She looks at it confused, taking the thick yellow envelope without a word. Dave coughed and said, "There is sixteen hundred in there and I can get three grand by the end of next week. Bay City isn't as safe as it once was and I can't keep looking at Hutch and lying to him."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know about you. I saw you in Venus Massage the other day giving an old man a, uh, a very thorough massage." Starsky shook his head. "Does Hutch know?"

Gillian blinked, trying to hold back the tears that had begun to gather. She looked down at her lap, the envelope in her hands full of money begging her to take it and run. But she couldn't. Ken would never forgive her and she would never forgive herself. Gillian turned back to Dave and nodded.

"He knows parts of it," she told him. "He's been hiding me, trying to get me away from them but they find me wherever I go. They found me last week, made me do it."

"Grossman and his mother?"

"Yes." She paused. "You love him too, don't you?" Dave didn't need to reply, she already knew the answer and scoffed at herself for even asking. "I love him, Starsky. I love him."

"He's gotta be told the entire truth. He deserves that, don't you think?" Starsky crouched down on the floor in front of her, his eyes staring deep into hers. "If you don't… I will."

"I… I have no choice, then." Dave nodded, pushing the envelope towards her and standing up. "I'll tell him tonight, I promise."

"And if you don't," Dave warned, "then I'll tell him in the morning."

As Starsky reached the door, Gillian called out, "Starsky?" He turned back, his hand on the door handle. "Wouldn't it be nice to be Hutch? In one lifetime you have two people love you so much." He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. He departed, closing the door behind him softly, leaving her clutching his money and trying to figure out what she was going to say to Hutch.

* * *

After Dave left, Gillian packed her things and set them beside her door. She had a choice to make and it was an obvious one. She couldn't talk to Hutch; not after promising him she would stop. She'd faltered once and had to pay the consequences. She had to leave Hutch. An extreme but it was the only way to keep him safe.

Gillian sat down on her couch and sighed. Even if Dave hadn't come to speak to her, she realized, the decision was made. Hutch had helped the best he could but in the end, with him around, she felt like a damsel in distress. She wasn't. She just happened to be in trouble when they'd met.

Without hesitation, she reached out for her phone and dialled a taxi service. She didn't want to take her car, Hutch would be able to trace it and find her. If she left her car and took a taxi, the chance of being found was slim. She waited for the horn to sound outside, peaking out her window to see the bright yellow taxi car, before leaving her home. Her bags were heavy but it was nothing compared to her heart.

She took her bags to the taxi, the driver not even bothering to get out of his car to help her. Once her bags were in the trunk, she slammed it with all the strength she could even though her hands are shaking at the idea of what she was about to do. She got in the taxi and said, "Venus Message Parlour, please."

The trip takes all but ten minutes; no matter how far she ran, Grossman always managed to find her. She ran and ran, and the whole time Grossman was just a few blocks away. Gillian sighed as she got out of the taxi, telling the driver to wait for her. He grumbled something unintelligible in response and changed the radio station. She walked into the parlour, waving hello to the girl in the front desk. the girl yelled after her, "You can't go back there, Gil!" But Gillian ignored her, pushing open the door and walking down the corridor to the backdoor where the office was. She opened the door, not bothering to knock.

"You don't see the door? It's for knocking," Momma Grossman said without looking up from her cluttered desk.

Gillian rolled her eyes and asked, "Where's Al?"

"Out."

"Where out?"

"None of your business, little girl," the old woman sneered. "What do you want?"

"Doesn't really matter," Gillian threw an envelope on the desk, "you'll do just as well."

Momma Grossman looked up from her desk, looking at the envelope and then at Gillian. "What's this?"

"My resignation and my keys," Gillian threw keys on the desk, one by one. "My apartment, my car, my safety deposit box. Everything your seedy little boy thought he bought and paid for me with."

Gillian turned around intent on getting the hell out of the place before Al Grossman came back. She could handle his mother, she wouldn't be able to hurt Gillian but he had a nasty temper and wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

"How dare you talk about my son like that," the old woman yelled, going around her desk and running towards Gillian, grabbing her arm and turning her back. "You don't have the right to!"

"Let go of me," Gillian said through grunted teeth. " Let go of me."

"You didn't have a dime when my son found you," she yelled in Gillian's face. "He picked you up out of the gutter. He made you something! He made you a star! And this is how you repay him?"

"Well, I am out of the gutter now, and neither you or your cheap son better try and pull me back," Gillian replied calmly. "And I said, let go." But the old woman did no such thing so Gillian did the only thing she could think of, she slap Momma Grossman.

"You hit me!" the old woman yelled. The second her grasp left Gillian, she reached for the door and left. The only thing she heard as she left were the screams of the old woman as she yelled, "You hit me! You hit me!"

* * *

Al Grossman had just come from the shops, content at his buys. If there was one thing Al could do, it was to cook. His mother enjoyed his cooking very much and tonight he was going to cook her favourite dish. Everything was going perfect, he'd gotten the ingredients for the meal and the day was going great. But the moment he saw Gillian run out of the parlor, Al knew his day was about to be ruined.

He called out after Gillian, getting got out car without his groceries. "Gillian?" She kept running. "Gillian!" She ran across the street, getting into a cab and driving off. Al watched as the taxi turned left at the light and then disappeared among the cars.

Al ran into the parlor, running straight back to his office where his mother was screaming, pulling at her hair with one hand and slapping herself with the other.

"She hit me." She repeated once he entered the office. She fell to the floor, Al had to run to catch her before she hurt herself. "She hit me."

Picking her up and sitting her on the nearest chair, Al asked, "What happened, momma?"

"She hit me…" his mother repeated. "That little tramp hit me!"

"Mom, are you all right?" he asked, cradling her head between his hands. "Talk to me!"

"We have no choice now, Al," she told him. "You've got to finish her. There's too much at stake."

Al did a double take, pulling back and looking at his mother. "Kill her? Do you… are you saying … mom?"

"Your whole life is in front of you, Al," she told him, grasping his hands between hers. "Your future, everything we've planned for. If we're not gonna lose it all now, you've got to take care of her. Because we don't know what she told him, we've gotta finish him too. Her boyfriend, the cop."

"What if she didn't tell him anything?"

"Don't be stupid," his mother spat. "Of course she told him! He's probably the reason we couldn't find her for two weeks."

"She's smart, momma," Al said. "She went to college."

"She went to college because of you. She should be thank you! Not throwing back in your face and… hitting your poor, old mother." She shook her head, breathing in deeply. "You have to do this, son."

Al looked at his mother and nodded. "I'll make the call, momma," he told his mother. "She won't bother us no more."


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starchy could have never imagined the consequences of his actions.

Hutch removed his jacket as he entered his home, un-tucking his shirt and folding it on his bed before going to the kitchen. He leaned down, getting a bottle of water and took a big gulp. He put the bottle back, holding back a yawn as he closed the refrigerator door. He contemplated taking a shower before deciding against it. After everything that had happened in the last few hours, from the shooting at the alley to Starsky's sudden aloofness and now a last minute meet up wit Gillian, a hot shower sounded perfect. But he had less than an hour before he had to meet up with Gillian and he didn't want to be late.

Everything was set and he wanted this night to be special. Gillian was special; she didn't need Hutch's help (or at least didn't ask for it). He didn't have to protect her; she was her own woman. Hutch liked that about her. He might even go as far as love her… but not quite. There was something off about Gillian, something in the way she held herself in public, which Hutch couldn't figure out. Sometimes, even somewhere as safe as Huggy's, she would be looking around as if searching for someone. She was antsy in public, it was odd, but then again she was a writer and artists are quirky. He had helped her get out of that life. She wasn't anyone's money horse anymore. She was safe. So he paid no attention to it.

But he did pay attention to a strange smell – a cheap cologne smell that only Starsky wore but he knew it wasn't his partner since the tomato wasn't parked in front – which he could sniff. On high alert, Hutch looked around his house, his hand by his gun holster. He looked around the room, leaning back on his heels to look towards his kitchen, but found nothing. Shrugging, he removed his gun holster, throwing it next to his jacket on the bed.

He began to undress when he heard the shuffling of feet. He stilled, alert now that there was indeed someone inside his home. Before he can react, however, a man came up behind him, wrapping a beefy arm around his neck - Hutch reacts out of instinct, not wanting to be the bystander like he had been at the alley, and elbowed the man in the ribs. The arms pulled back and Hutch turned around just in time to be hit over the head.

A voice saying, "Take him out back. I'll follow you," followed by two arms picking him up, is the last thing he heard before blacking out.

* * *

Monk looked at the cop, tied up and blindfolded in a wooden chair that leans more to the left than the right. One of the men, Tom who was currently hitting Hutch, heard from an army buddy that having an unbalanced chair while being blindfolded can make a man feel disoriented. Monk had rolled his eyes at that, not believing a word, but he let Tom set Hutch down and then begin their first session.

"Where is she, Hutchinson?" Monk asked as Tom backhanded the detective. "Tell me where she is and we'll let you go."

"I'm Starsky… I don't know what you're talking about." The detective spit out some blood that had gathered in his mouth from the hits to his face and then added, "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell a creep like you."

"Don't be stupid, Hutchinson." Monk leaned against the wall, a safe distance from the detective and said, "she's only a dame, a broad who is in deep with someone very powerful. Tell us where she is and you'll wake up in your bed tomorrow nice and cosy with a busted lip but alive. You hear me? Alive, Hutchinson."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man insisted.

Monk sighed, turning away from him. There was no talking to him but perhaps after a few more punches he would cave in a bit. Doubtful considering he was a cop but even cops have their limits. Before leaving the room, Monk waved a hand to Tom and said, "Make him talk."

Monk leaves the insulated room, the sounds of grunts being heard only when he opened the door to slip out. Al Grossman paced the living room – the neighbours would be shocked if knew what this house was really used for – his face coated in sweat looking out the window. Monk cleared his throat.

"He's not talking," he told Grossman. "No one saw us take him, we have his car in the garage but he's not saying anything. He denies being Ken Hutchinson."

"You are sure it's him, right?" Grossman turned around completely, walking toward Monk. The man looked like he was on the verge of collapsing from anxiety. "You didn't fuck it up and take some random-"

"It's him," Monk assured him.

"Then why are you not beating the crap out of him? Why aren't you torturing him?" Grossman bit his lower lip. "She slapped my mother. The bitch had the nerve to come into our place of business and slap my mother. MY. MOTHER!"

"He's a cop…" Monk said. "Cops are… they don't talk as easy as regular people."

"She was meeting him tonight. He knows where she is."

"He's a cop," Monk repeated. "We snatched a cop for a call girl. That is not smart."

"He's the only one who can tell us where she is."

"And once you find her?"

"They both die." Grossman said without an inch of emotion. "Simple as that."

"If you're not the one pulling the trigger," Monk said under his breath. "Look, if he can tell us it won't be by being beat."

Tom slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him and joining Monk and Grossman in the living room. He nodded to the men and said, "He's out cold. He's one tough cookie. I think I might have broken his nose."

"He won't need his nose where he is going," Grossman said taking out a small bag from his suit pocket. "We could dump him somewhere and forget about him or we could juice him up."

Monk paused. "OD? You want us to OD him?"

"No," Grossman threw the bag to Monk. "We string him up and by the end of our … treatment, he'll be begging to tell us where she is."

"It'll take time," Monk said opening the bag.

"Then you better get started." Grossman walked away, stopping at the door and saying, "I expect a call in the next few days with the location of Gillian. You don't want to anger mother."

Tom and Monk watched Grossman leave before turning to one another. Monk looked at the bag in his hands. Monk is conflicted but has no choice. He must do this. He threw the bag to Tom and said, "Do it."

They walk back into the room and begin to prepare the heroin. Monk let's Tom prepare it, still conflicted but willing to do it nonetheless, while he ties a band around the cop's right bicep. He felt the man struggle, still blindfolded he has no idea what they are going to do. Tom came from behind him, and nodded to the table behind.

"It's ready."

"Hold him then," Monk commanded. "Hold him down real good, Tom. He's gonna struggle." Monk grabbed the syringe from the bag and dunks the end into the melted heroin. The syringe is filled and Monk turned around.

"Last chance, cop," he told Hutch as he leaned over him, one finger touching the vein in his pale skin. The cop struggled, but remained silent.

When Monk touched the tip of the syringe to his skin, however, he yelled, "What are you doing?! No, stop!"

"Where is she, Hutchinson?"

"I don't know!"

"Liar." Monk injects the heroin into the cop. "Liar."

* * *

Gillian mentally kicked herself, angry that she had forgotten her passport. But now the one thing that could get her out of the Grossman's grasp and she had forgotten it in her sock drawer. She had been spending the last few days in different hotels, moving from one to the other at night when there was less chance to be seen. After Hutch didn't show up to meet with her two days ago, Gillian figured either Starsky had told him or Grossman had found Hutch. The latter was a possibility she refused to acknowledge but she couldn't call Starsky up either.

She dialed Hutch's number, but his phone just rang out. Sighing, she quickly goes to her bedroom to look for her passport. She finds it, closing the drawer and looking around to make sure she didn't forget anything else. Her flat was the same except for a few empty shelfs and bottles in her room. Other than that, it looked like she had just gone for the day. She sighed again and as she left her bedroom, she heard the front door close.

Without thinking she calls out, "Ken? Is that you, Ken?" as she went into the living room. But instead of Kenneth she sees Grossman. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

Grossman ignored her, walking slowly in her direction. "You, uh, shouldn't hit mom.

"Al. Al." Gillian yelled as he approached. "How did you find me? It's been days!"

"You should really keep that boyfriend of yours on a tighter leash," Grossman replied pushing her against the wall harsh enough that Gillian's vision falters. "He told me everything."

"He does- he didn-" Gillian passed out as he pushed her against the wall again.

* * *

Starsky was barely through the door, arms full of groceries, when the phone rang. Hutch had been gone for a few days now and they hadn't spoken for a while, strange but not uncommon especially if Gillian told Hutch the truth.

Starsky ran to the phone, dropping his groceries on the kitchen counter as he did so. "Yeah? Hutch?"

"No, It's Huggy, Starsky."

"Oh, hey Hug. What's up?"

"Dig, I think that chick Gillian is about to get wasted."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Well… She and old lady Grossman had a cat fight at the parlor the other day. From what I hear, Grossman junior found her and is headed to her place right now."

"Wait - Hutch hasn't been answering any calls and hasn't been at work," Starsky said. "You think Grossman's got him?"

"I haven't heard that," Huggy replied. "But i'll ask around."

"Thanks Hug. Do have Gillian's address?"

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences continue to pile up.

(18)

Starsky arrived at Gillian's place and rushed out of the Torino. There weren't any suspicious cars outside from the brief glance he took; maybe he had beaten the goons to her. But as he reached her apartment door he knew that was not the case. Without needing to even look inside he mentally prepared himself for the inevitable.

He pushed the door open with his foot, reaching for his gun as he entered the apartment. Two large luggage bags were thrown on the floor by the door, contents scattered all around them. Starsky took a quick look at them, trying to assess if they'd left any clues that could tie them to a break-in. He found none. Moving further into the room, he called out Gillian's name but received no answer, his voice echoing in his ears.

"Gillian?" He called out as he rounded the large table in the centre of the dining room. "Gil-"

A few feet from the table lay Gillian. Her body was twisted into a weird 's' shape, her limbs covered in bruises from where her bones were broken. Her head lay at an angle, she had a scarf around her neck. In closer inspection, Starsky could see the scarf had been what strangled her. Dead eyes looked at him as he bent down with a sorrowful sigh.

"I'm sorry, I was too late," he told her dead body. "I'm so sorry."

Starsky covered her eyes with two fingers, closing Gillian's eyelids, and stood up. He took the cover from her couch, pulling it over her body over her head. There was nothing else he could do for her. He reached for the phone, pushing the numbers numbly trying to wrap his head around the situation. If they got Gillian, did that mean they have Hutch too?

"Yeah, Detective Starsky, I want a coroner's lab and a crime le...la...a coroner's team and a crime lab at 116 Berkley, apartment two-four. Twenty-four," Starsky said into the phone, hanging up upon confirmation. He slouched against the couch letting out a long breath through his teeth. This was one messed up situation Hutch had gotten himself in.

Once the coroner's lab arrived, two doctors bending down to examine the broken body, Starsky took a chance to look around. It was made to look like a robbery gone bad judging by the mess. Nothing expensive seemed missing. An expensive radio, a color television, and jewelry were all in their proper places; nothing was missing in his eyes. Then again, he wasn't a hooker on the run from her mother-and-son bosses. The bags by the door begged the question: where was she heading? Was she going to Hutch's?

Grabbing the phone from the table in the living room, Starsky dialed Hutch's number and hoped the man would answer. He didn't and that troubled the detective. He could be in the shower, he reasoned. If anyone should tell Hutch about Gillian it should be me. He dialed a new number, Huggy's, and waited for the call to be picked up. Starsky's eyes roamed the apartment he was in. Rather expensive for a call girl, he thought. Why would the Grossman's have her killed? Was she leaving?

"This is the Bear," Starsky heard as his phone call was answered. "The Bear with an aire for flair."

"Hug, she's dead," the detective said without preamble. "They got her before I could get here."

"Damn. What about Hutch?"

"He's not answering. Have ya heard anything?"

"The usual rumblings but nothing specifically about Grossman," Huggy said. "Although a cat named Monk is working a job."

"So what?"

"He works for the Grossman's. He's their, shall we say, top lieutenant in their shady operations. He gets his hands dirty whilst they run the business side of things."

"Find out anything you can about Monk," Starsky said, "if he has anything to do with Gillian being killed I want to know about it. I'll check Hutch's place… call me if you find anything."

"Will do."

Starsky rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. What a mess this was. He left the crime scene and headed to Hutch's place. The drive over wasn't very far, he made it there in less than ten minutes, parking the Torino and running out of the car to Hutch's apartment.

Hutch was a creature of habit; he didn't do well with change, which was why it seemed a bit odd that his spare key was on the wrong side above the frame of the door. Wary, Starsky reached for his gun as he turned the key. The door clicked, opening a few inches. He silently pushed the door open with his elbow and prayed to who-ever was up there that he wasn't about to find another dead body in the living room. He pushed the door open, his gun poised to shoot at a moments notice. The apartment was empty, however, empty and quiet.

No shower was running, no music was playing or whistling coming from the patio, no burning food on the stove or curses coming from the bedroom. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

And that scared Dave Starsky more than anything.

* * *

Monk entered the dark room, cringing at the sharp smell that hit his face. He blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of the space in front of him. Slipping his hand in his pants pocket, he took out a small, thin flashlight and approached the hunched over figure in the center of the room. The detective was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in quick procession. Monk sighed silently hoping the man's torment would end soon. There was only so much a body could take before it broke and, looking at the detective wheezing, his body convulsing every few minutes, the time was nearing for him.

He leaned down, gripping the blond hair and pulling the detective's head back. Using two fingers, he pulled open his eyes, shinning the flashlight into his bloodshot eyes. Hutchinson tried to move away as the light hit his eyes, Monk held on to his hair tighter until he was satisfied with what he saw.

"What's your name?" he whispered. The detective shook his head unintelligible noises coming from his slacked mouth. Monk asked again, a little louder this time, "What's your name?"

"I-I nee-need h-hel-help." Hutch reached out, gripping Monk by the lapels and bringing him close. "I need n-eed some help. J-just a-a little help!"

Monk pulled away, letting go of his hair just as Sonny Grossman entered the room. The man looks dissatisfied, as always, his eyes fidgeted around the room, his eyes barely stopping on the blond detective. A nod towards the door pulled Monk away from Hutchinson's side and out the door with Grossman.

"In a couple of hours he'll be banging his head against the floor, begging to be fed the stuff," Monk told Grossman. "We can't be certain if what he'll tell us will be accurate though. Junkies will tell you anything to get another hit."

"All I need to know is…" Grossman trailed off, his eyes off to the side. Monk waited, brows furrowed. "Is momma safe?"

"What if he doesn't know?" Monk asked. "You got rid of the girl, what else could he tell ya?"

"He can tell me what she told him. He's a cop, Monk, cops don't tend to keep their mouths shut when it comes to crimes."

"I still don't see why-"

" – Why is not important to you. You are here for one thing and one thing only: to find out what that cop knows about me and Momma."

"What if he doesn't know anything? Maybe the girl didn't tell him anything."

"I can't take that risk." The younger man rubbed the back of his neck, his thick fingers leaving marks on his pale skin with the pressure. "If he doesn't know then he's useless to me," Grossman said, lowering his hands. He turned away, moving towards the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder, "Mother is getting impatient, Monk. Get the job done or we'll find someone who will."

Monk rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed. What had he gotten himself into? Grossman had already killed the girl; Monk saw no reason in keeping the cop any longer. They should just dump him back; all strung out, and beat it. But the Grossman duo had nothing but revenge in their minds and Monk had to get it for them or else they might… he couldn't think of that. He had a job to do; bloody as it was it had to be done. He just hoped the cop survived long enough to see Monk's work come to fruition.

* * *

Starsky drove back to the station like a madman. In his mind he ran through places where Hutch might be, a relatively short list and most of them he was able to cross of without even dropping by. If Hutch needed to hide, if he needed help or knew he was in danger, there were only a handful of people who he would go to. Of that handful, there was only one he would go to immediately and that person was driving like a maniac on a rampage down the crowded streets of Bay City, sirens blaring and mumbling to himself.

Grabbing the radio, he requested a patch in to Dobey's office. The faster they got the ball rolling, the faster Hutch would be safe. If they would kill Gillian for wanting to leave them, what would they do to her cop boyfriend if they thought she'd told him something? Starsky shivered. He had seen what people like the Grossmans did to cops who messed with 'their' property. Hutch was not going to end up like them. Starsky was _not_ going to bury another one of his friends. That was not even an option for him. He was going to find Hutch no matter who or what he got in his way.

"This is Dobey," the radio blared, snapping Starsky out of his grim thoughts. He released his tight hold on the speaker, taking a deep breath as Dobey's voice called out again, "This is Dobey. Come in Starsky?"

"He's gone, Captain," he said solemnly. "Hutch is gone."

"Whatda ya mean he's gone?"

"I found his girl dead in her apartment," Starsky said into the speaker. "The coroner is there now... someone strangled her, captain. Wrecked her place afterwards and-"

"I heard," Dobey interrupted softly. "What about Hutchinson?"

"I found his gun back at his apartment," he replied. "Hutch wouldn't visit his mother without his gun."

"What do you think happened to him?" Dobey asked after a moment.

"I don't know."

"Do you think, maybe, they took him when they killed the girl?"

"I don't know."

"I don't like where this is going, Starsky," the captain said with a tired sigh. "What do you want to do about it?"

"Missing persons?" Starsky said as he turned, the police station in his sights.

"That's a missing officer," Dobey corrected.

"No," he said, driving into the parking lot and parking the Torino. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead on the steering wheel. He brought the speaker near his mouth and said, "That's a missing partner."

"I'll get an APB out on him," Dobey said firmly. "We'll find him, Starsky."

"I know we will," Starsky said out loud, throwing the speaker to the seat next to him, the seat that belonged to Hutch. He turned his head, careful to keep from pressing down on the horn and said, "but what if it's too late?"

* * *

Sonny Grossman had seen his mother angry before; most of his childhood was spent hiding inside a cupboard to avoid her anger. But this time it was different. Although he still felt the need to hide behind something and his body still tensed as she yelled, her anger wasn't directed at him and for that he was glad of it.

Things with the cop were not going as planned, according to his mother. He should have talked by now, told them what he knew about them. Sonny recalled Monk's words 'what if he doesn't know anything?' but kept them to himself.

The cop hadn't told them Gillian's location, but Gillian hadn't known that when he wrapped his thick hand around her neck and squeezed. His mother inside that, if he kept quiet about her location then he was keeping quite about everything else he knew.

To Sonny, this had gone too far and he just wanted to go to another city, start over and forget this had ever happened. Killing a girl was one thing but a cop? Sonny had limits, unlike his mother, and killing a cop without a good reason was his limit.

"Are you even listening to me?" his mother snapped at him, rising from behind her overly large desk and coming around to stand in front of him. Even with his towering stature, momma always made him feel 6 inches tall instead of nearly 6 feet in her presence. He nodded, satisfying her for the moment, and let her continue on. "Monk needs to up the dose. The cop needs to talk and soon!"

"Yes, momma," he said robotically. He knew better than to disagree. "He's taken to the stuff, it won't be long before he can't go without it."

"Good." His mother smiled at him, the sides of her lips curling up in a way that gave Sonny nightmares. He didn't dare look away, however. "The tramp is dead at your hands, how did it feel?"

Sonny contemplated for a moment, trying to find the answer momma was looking for in the cold, hard gaze she paralyzed him with. He had felt … nothing. He had felt nothing for a long time, nothing but what momma wanted him to feel. Cooking managed to make him happy for a moment before his mother's judging eyes tore it down again.

"It felt good," he finally said, trying not to look away at the lie. "Her neck was soft, I just squeezed and her eyes were empty. It felt really good."

Momma narrowed her eyes at him, he stared back unwilling to let her see through his lie. "My boy is all grown up," she told him, patting his cheek with her wrinkly hand. "Finally, I have a man as a son."

Sonny wished he had told the truth there and then. If it took a murder to make him a man, what else was in store for him?

* * *

Monk entered the room where the cop was, Tom in tow with yet another syringe ready to be introduced into the man's lean body. As it was the cop was slowly starting to withdraw, he  _needed_ this dose. He  _wanted_ the dose. He took the syringe from Tom and motioned with his head towards Hutchinson.

Tom grabbed the man from the corner where he had been, his legs pulled up to his chest and hands clawing at his neck. He brought Hutchinson to Monk who inspected his wounds, careful to avoid getting hit by flailing hands. They were not that deep, superficial wounds that would, should he make it, heal up in a few weeks. Monk nodded to Tom who pulled Hutchinson upright and into a chair. Straps were no longer needed; the cop would offer his arm out willingly. It was amazing what a few hours of injections would do to the body and the brain. He still wouldn't talk, however, and Monk couldn't help but be amazed.

They had been at this for nearly ten hours, the word only now getting out that there was a missing cop. Monk was sure his partner was out looking for him and so, what they did in the next few moments could mean either Hutchinson was found dead or alive.

"Remember me?" Tom bellowed into the shaking man's ear. Hutchinson flinched away, almost toppling over from the chair. Having heard no response, Tom slapped him hard and, this time, he did fall from his chair. "I said: Do. You. Remember. Me."

"… Lousy creep," was all Monk managed to hear. Tom grinned wide as he looked at Hutchinson. Monk stood little ways away from them, watching, the syringe in his hand. The cop pulled himself upwards, tilting slightly to the left as he stood and gasped, "give me… give it to me… some help."

Hands reached out towards Monk. Tom's eyes on him and the fury of Momma Grossman, among others, were waiting for Monk to make a mistake. Internally flinching at what he was about to do, he handed Tom the syringe and said, "I think he's been a good boy. Let him have it."

He doesn't remain in the room; he quickly exited, closing the door behind him. He closed his eyes and unbidden sigh escaping from his lips. This was not going according to plan. He … he couldn't be involved in this any longer.

Hutchinson could be the strongest, most stubborn and strong-willed man on earth but even he couldn't compete with continuous doses of drugs. His system would soon crave the feel of the needle pushing into his skin and then… then it would be too late for him. Monk would not let that happen.

Monk ran his hands through his thinning hair, composing himself and getting ready for what needed to be done. When Tom exited the room, shaking his head and disposing of the syringe, Monk knew there was only one thing to do.

"Call Grossman. Tell him the bad news," Monk ordered Tom. "I'll keep an eye on the cop."

Tom nodded. Monk re-entered the room and shook his head. Hutchinson laid on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. His mouth moved as he continuously whispered to himself, his eyes wide open. Monk went to him, leaning down close enough so, should Tom be listening at the door, he wouldn't hear what he was about to say.

"Listen to me," he whispered. "You need to get out of here. You need to run."

"W-what?" Hutchinson whispered back, his eyes glazed over and looking at Monk's shoes. "W-wh-why?"

"I'll help you, if I can. No promises." Monk stepped away just as Tom entered the room, a roll of tape in his hands. Monk cleared his throat. "What's the verdict?"

"The beach," Tom replied. Monk gulped and looked down at Hutch. "What's the matter, Monk? It ain't like we never iced nobody before."

"We've never killed a cop," Monk argued. "Let's just get this over with."

Monk helped tie Hutchinson's hands together with the tape, their eyes meeting briefly. He could have sworn, even in his drugged up state of mind, that he nodded when Tom looked away. Monk blinked. That was good news, if he hadn't imagined it that is. He looked at the cop, waiting for another nod but none came. By the time Tom and Monk carried Hutchinson out of the house, Monk was sure he had imagined the whole thing.

"He ain't even gonna know what hit him, even when he hits the water," Tom chuckled as he opened the car door. Together they pushed the rather tall Hutchinson into the backseat, Tom getting in with him to keep an eye on him. Monk gave the cop one last look, trying to find a confirmation. Again, none was given by the high cop. Tom closed the door and Monk went around the car to the drivers seat.

"Keep an eye on him," Monk mumbled, turning on the engine. "Grossman wants this done nice and clean."

"We shoulda just let him OD," Tom said, "just dumped him on the side of a road somewhere."

"He's been gone for hours now," Monk answered, his eyes on the road as they hit the main street. "His partner is probably out looking for him and, if he found Gillian, he's bound to find the Grossman's. If he's found on the side of the road somewhere, who do ya think the cop is gonna go after, huh?"

"Alright, alright," Tom drawled. "I see your point."

"He'll be a missing cop until his body is unrecognizable and by then, nothing can trace him to us," Monk added. "We dump him off the point where the water's deep. The current oughta carry him out about 200 miles."

"You hear that, cop? You gonna be swimming with the fishies!"

Monk drove, mentally running through the different routes to the harbor. If they continued on the this street it would-

"If you take Ninth, you can hit the freeway to the harbor," Tom advised from the backseat.

"I'll drive," Monk snapped. "Just keep an eye on him."

Monk made a turn heading towards Ninth. Tom, while loyal, was easily suspicious, looking at him from the backseat like he was a puzzle that had suddenly switched pieces. Monk avoided the man's eyes, driving on like he would on any other hit. Except this wasn't any other hit. This was a cop, a cop who had done nothing wrong but falling in love with the wrong girl. Hell, they hadn't even gotten information from him. Monk would be fairly surprised if the man even remembered their faces what with all the drugs in his system. Maybe he could convince-

"Watch it," Tom said. "Cops on the corner. Make sure we-"

"Tom?" Monk called out, looking at the rearview mirror to find him being strangled by the man in the backseat. Monk pulled over to the side, turning around completely in time to see Tom's eyes close as unconsciousness took over. He and Hutchinson looked at one another. This was his chance, why was he stalling? Perhaps he thinks this is a trap, Monk thought.

"Why?" Hutchinson croaked out.

"Just go," Monk urged. "Go!"

* * *

Bernie and Arnold had been partners for a long time. They had been friends for even longer having gone through the police academy together. They had been each other's best man at their weddings. Their children grew up together, went to school together. They were brothers in everything but blood. Being partnered together for patrol duty had only added another level to their continuous relationship.

Bernie, being the older of the two, always saw it as his duty to protect his partner. Being partners wasn't just about catching bad guys or cleaning up the streets for a brighter tomorrow like the recruiters advertised, it was about trust. If you can't trust your partner to watch your back, then whom can you trust? Loyalty was one thing but trust… that you couldn't manufacture, couldn't fake. One can be loyal to a television show or even a baseball team but trust… that was earned with time. Time, Bernie thought, was one thing that Starsky was running out of.

They'd heard the radio chatter about Hutchinson, Starsky's partner, going MIA. Immediately, Bernie and Arnold were on the lookout for the missing cop. Neither one could imagine what Starsky was feeling but they could probably compare it to a limb being cut off. A feeling they wouldn't wish on anyone.

Everyone knew how close those two were, how brotherly they were with each other from the beginning. Kenneth Hutchinson, with a calm presence and warm demeanor, had calmed down the high-strung enigma that was David Starsky. From the very beginning they had practically become brothers, instantly connected like two sides of a coin. That was hard to find and Bernie only hoped that they wouldn't loose it.

"Eh, I almost forgot the wife wants to know when you - " Arnold stopped, pointing ahead of them at a guy who was stumbling his way through traffic. "Hey, isn't that that detective? Hutchinson, you know? That missing officer?"

Bernie looked, squinting at the bright sun. "Call it in," he yelled, getting out the patrol car and following Hutchinson down an alley.

"All units, missing officer sighted…"

* * *

After checking in with Dobey and getting the word out to Huggy about Hutch, Starsky sat behind his desk and waited. The clock in front of him, usually blocked by Hutch's blond head, ticked and ticked and ticked until Starsky wanted nothing more than to take off his shoe and throw it at the damned thing.

Taking the hint from Captain Dobey who had, on his way to refilling his fifth cup of coffe for the afternoon, been struck by a shoe sometime later, Starsky left the precinct. He didn't know where to go, his mind still caught up in the fact that Hutch was gone. His partner, his overly careful blond stubborn partner was gone. The only place he could go to find any answers would be Hutch's place. Maybe they left something that-

"Detective Hutchinson. Corner of Elm and Second. We are in pursuit."

Starsky was only a few minutes away from the corner as the call came over the radio. His heart beat rapidly in his chest. Hutch… someone found Hutch! Immediately Starsky made his way to Elm and Second, skidding to a stop next to a police car. He held out his badge between trembling fingers and asked, "Where is he?"

"In there, the alley," the uniformed cop informed him, pointing to said alley. "My partner is with him. He didn't look so hot."

"Thanks," Starsky replied as he drove the way the man had pointed to. As he came around the mouth of the alley, he got out of the Torino and ran to where a cop was leaning over a hunched man. Starsky couldn't breathe for a moment. Was that Hutch?! He ran towards them.

The cop leaning over Hutch's pale, wide-eyed form looked up as Starsky approached. "He's your partner, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Starsky said. He crouched down, reaching out and tilting Hutch's head side to side for a reaction. His eyes were glazed over, his breathing hard and skin as clammy as a fish. Starsky let out a careful breath, rolling up Hutch's sleeves. "Wh-what did they do to you, Hutch?"

"My God! He's a junkie," the cop chocked out beside them.

"Shut up, huh?" Pulling Hutch into his lap, his arms rubbing circles in his back. Starsky gave the cop a hard look and added, "I'll handle it."

"I gotta make a report," the cop said, before shaking his head. "You know what? I saw nothing. This didn't happen."

"Good man," Starsky nodded. "Give me a hand."

"I hope he gets better," the man said as he helped Starsky pull Hutch to his feet. "I'll… We'll circle the block a few times see if anyone saw anything."

Together they managed to carry the half unconscious detective to Starsky's car, putting him in the backseat. "Thanks," Starsky said, closing the door and pushing the passenger seat back. "I appreciate it."

"I'll radio if we find anything," the cop said taking his leave with a nod of his head.

Dave Starsky had seen many things in his long career as a military man and then as a cop but this? This topped them all. Who would do this to another human being? This was short of murder; this was a slow and painful death. They wouldn't even need to have killed him, by the look of him he was as stung out as a junkie on the streets. Any moment he would wake up and want - no, need - more of the stuff, an addict for life all because of a girl.

"It's gonna be alright," he promised his partner. "Ima take care of you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FFNET.  
> It's my first dive into the fandom.


End file.
